


Code Breaking

by shadesofbrixton



Series: Theme and Variations: The AU Collection [7]
Category: A Knight's Tale (2001)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - World War II, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-01
Updated: 2006-05-01
Packaged: 2019-10-09 13:57:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17408171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesofbrixton/pseuds/shadesofbrixton
Summary: A sequel toMarching Off to War. After Geoff and Wat have found each other, history reaches into the present to pull them apart again.





	Code Breaking

**Author's Note:**

> Vague inaccuracies about military ranking. I realized I'd ranked Adhemar below Roland, and, upon review, I think I sort of like it that way.

_You, you could be anywhere  
Somewhere so far from here  
Wherever you are like a falling star  
Come back to planet earth, burn out with me.  
There's a light in my window that never goes out  
There's a candle that I'll light for you  
In case you roll back into town._  
\- Terra Firma Cowboy Blues, Alabama 3

  
  
  
  
  
It is warm, but windy, in the valley. Warm enough to leave the shutters open, at least while the sun is up, and Wat has taken advantage of the weather to do the washing. It's a Tuesday, so the café is closed until tomorrow morning, but Wat rose early just the same to tackle the table linens. He'd been dressing as Geoff crawled into bed, and the writer had been too exhausted to even protest Wat's covering of his form.  
  
It is well into the afternoon now, the sun just over its peak and dawdling toward the horizon, as though in deference to Wat getting all the tablecloths pinned to the line. His mouth is full of wooden clips and his fingers are cold from the wind and the damp of the cloth under his hands.   
  
By the time he gets the second batch of sheets up, it's time to pull down the first set from the morning – it was Rosie's idea to string up matching sets of lines so that they can dry both sets of linens in one day. And they're helpful, he admits this, even if it makes her gloat a little. He figures that probably doesn't hurt her much. Geoff says he's gone soft over her, which Wat thinks is probably true, but it doesn't stop him from banging Geoff in the side.   
  
Wat walks between the rows of fluttering, dancing fabric, legs getting tangled a little as he rounds one corner, and he swears and bats at the sheet, forcing it away from him. It takes a moment, and when he looks up, he just barely catches a glimpse of something around the corner of the clotheslines, through the billowing sheets, like tiny sails on a hundred ships. He ducks around the side of the posts, closer to the café, and searches for the source of what has startled him. It is the noise that gives it away, as the car roars up the slight dip in the road, coming into sight again. They don't get much automobile traffic through this part of the valley, especially this time of year, when it's starting to get warm again.   
  
He watches it go, his hands on his hips, body turning as it progresses down the road in a cloud of smoke. Going far too fast, in Wat's opinion. He huffs quietly to himself, shakes his head, and tries not to feel like his father, condemning people for going too fast, but really, there are the girls who live just on the next piece of property over, and they're always playing in the road, even though Rosie's always scolding them.   
  
It's late enough that they're probably in to help Kate with supper, but it still makes him grump a bit as he lets himself back into the café through the back door. Realizing what time it is, he takes the stairs two at a time, knowing he's let Geoff oversleep and the man'll have his entire internal clock out of whack and, more likely than not, end up keeping Wat up all hours of the night mauling him senseless.  
  
The thought makes him grin a little, but he stifles it thoroughly before he shoulders into the bedroom.   
  
Afternoon sunlight is coming in through one of the windows on the western side of the room. The light just reaches the bed, flooding Geoff's pale back with a warm cast, and setting his hair alight like spun gold. Wat finds himself standing, for just a moment, in the doorway, watching the slight rise and fall of Geoff's back as he breathes.   
  
Alive, Wat reminds himself. Alive.   
  
He pushes off from the threshold and goes to pull the shutters closed – Geoff must've opened them at some point, which meant he was sleeping restlessly today, but it's been that sort of day. He always feels a little out of sorts when Geoff's on his odd writing hours, anyway.   
  
Wat sits on the edge of the bed, runs a hand over Geoff's back. Geoff wakes immediately, a startled tiny sound losing itself in the sheets, and a muzzy, confused face turns toward Geoff's arm, enough to catch sight of Wat in his peripheral vision.   
  
"Lazy," Wat says gruffly.   
  
"Mm," Geoff replies, the tension draining out of his back again, and Wat keeps up the idle pattern his hand has decided to trace along Geoff's spine. "Time's it?"  
  
"Just past four. Come help me with the wash."  
  
"Oh, that's an incentive to get out of bed," Geoff says, and his voice is rough from sleep. He pushes with one long-fingered hand at the clean sheets, and manages to lever himself onto his back. He isn't naked, Wat notices, more's the pity, but must've changed into his linen pants at some point. He wonders if it was when Geoff opened the window, or later, or before.   
  
"You've been in bed all day," Wat scolds him. "Lazing about."  
  
"You were in bed all night," Geoff counters, and appropriates Wat's hand, which, displaced from having Geoff's back to stroke, had been about to get pulled away entirely.   
  
He takes it in his own, and tugs gently, and Wat really doesn't have any option but to swing his legs up onto the bed and fit himself up against Geoff's side.  
  
"Mm," Geoff says again, and tips his head down to bury his nose in Wat's hair. "Hi."  
  
"Dreams again?" Wat asks, scowling a bit at himself, knowing it's none of his business. Except that Geoff always insists that it is, that it's their business, that he wants to know about Wat's. But talking it out doesn't make the dreams go away anyway, so Wat doesn't see the point.   
  
"Nothing that bad," Geoff says, and Wat wants to not believe him, but Geoff would tell him if they were. "Just too restless to sleep without you."   
  
Wat can feel the smile, and the sentiment makes him scowl and flush on the inside at the same time. He puts his hand on Geoff's chest, and lets his fingers curl. "Your own fault for staying up all hours."  
  
"I know," Geoff says, tugging him closer, and tilting his face up for a kiss. It's warm and lazy, like Geoff's skin feels, and Wat sighs into it a little.   
  
A knock at the door.   
  
Wat makes an annoyed sound, turning to glare over his shoulder. It makes Geoff laugh, and skim his hand over the back of Wat's head.   
  
"Probably Finn," Geoff says, reasonably. But any of their regulars would know not to call on a Tuesday, and Wat keeps staring, straining to hear any noises now. He wishes he hadn't drawn the shutters.   
  
He's about to lie back down again when the knock sounds, more urgent this time. Geoff makes the annoyed sound this time, and pushes himself up, groaning. Wat sighs, knowing that they probably should've gotten up anyway, because there are still things to do to get the café ready to open tomorrow morning, but still. It's his night off, and he wants to spend it with Geoff, for once, instead of taking orders and making coffee. Rosie's even gone down the way to visit the boy with the roadster who Wat doesn't particularly approve of.   
  
Geoff picks his trousers up off the floor, and Wat spares an appreciative glance at the flash of skin he gets as the man changes, struggling with his long legs, before he goes downstairs to see who's at the door. It's the back door, as well, the delivery door, which makes him remember the car, and the girls, and he has a flash of anxiety that something's happened.  
  
He blinks into the setting sun as he pulls the door open, and shields his eyes, looking down the two steps at the men in long coats gathered amongst his billowing tablecloths.   
  
"What?" he demands, immediately on the defensive.   
  
"We're looking for a Geoffrey Chaucer," says the man in front, pushing back his brimmed hat. He's got his hands in his pockets, and Wat automatically checks him for a gun. He has one. They all have one.  
  
"Those gambling debts were settled a long time ago," Wat says, his hand edging toward the side of the door, where he's got a shotgun mounted. It isn't loaded, but they don't need to know that. They get a lot of wolves this side of the valley, and an empty round into the air will scare them off.   
  
The man cracks a grin, but it's an unsettling expression. "Not gambling. British Intelligence." He pulls out an identification case made of smooth leather and passes it over to Wat. He examines it back and front before he hands it back. "Just a bit above debt collectors."  
  
Wat frowns, his hand still on the doorway, and turns to call over his shoulder. "Chaucer!"  
  
Geoff comes skidding and stumbling down the stairs, tugging a sweater on over his shirt. "What! What what. Hi. What's going on?" He looks from Wat to the people at the door.   
  
Wat pulls away a little for him to squeeze past to talk to the men, and notices he's even put on shoes. For some reason, it unsettles him.  
  
"Geoffrey Chaucer?" the man on the front steps says, and Wat can see the tone freeze up something in Geoff's back.   
  
"Yes?" he says cautiously, crossing his arms over his chest, eyes tracking a quick survey of the people gathered.   
  
"You are hereby arrested for your participation in the unethical treatment of prisoners of war," the man says, and proceeds to rattle off a long string of legalese, but Wat doesn't hear any of it because his head fills with a sudden rush of blood.   
  
Geoff is protesting adamantly, talking with his hands, and the men who came with the British officer are drawing closer. Geoff presses against the wall of the café, his hands flat against the boards.   
  
"This is ridiculous!" he says, and sounds more frustrated and baffled than angry. "I served under General Black, my requisition papers are on file with the British Government, my name was cleared six months after the war – "  
  
"You have been named at the trials, and must be brought in," the man with the hat says calmly. "The less you fight us, the better it will go for you. You're being granted the privileges of British citizenship."   
  
Geoff looks like he wants to deny them, but knows better. "Where are you taking me?"  
  
The man doesn't answer his question. "We'll handcuff you if we have to, sir. We wanted to do this discreetly. Your landlord doesn't need to deal with a poor reputation. We understand you're a veteran, sir."   
  
It's only with a nod at him that Wat realizes, with a jolt, that he's being addressed, and that these men consider him nothing more than Geoff's landlord. "I served with him during the war, this isn't – "  
  
"Merely routine," the man in the hat says, placid. "Please, Mr. Chaucer, if you'll go to the car. We'll have you back on the inside of a month, if your name clears out."  
  
Geoff hesitates, casting a look back at Wat. Wat keeps his gaze blank. "Alright," Geoff says, turning back to the man in the hat. "I'm going to go upstairs and get my journals." He doesn't make it a question, and the man in the hat looks like he wants to protest. "It's got dated information from my time behind enemy lines. It's going to be useful to you whether you charge me formally or not."   
  
Tempted at the notion of new information, the man nods, sharply, and lets him go. Geoff retreats back up the stairs slowly, and Wat knows the look on his face.   
  
"You'd better go watch him," the man says, "we've had runners before. We don't want to have to shoot him."   
  
Wat looks adequately alarmed and goes after Geoff.   
  
He's filling a small messenger satchel, leather, with four of his books. "You wrote that much?" Wat asks, lamely.   
  
"I write a lot," Geoff replies. He picks up his jacket, light enough for the weather and long enough to keep the rain off, and slips it on, checking the pockets distractedly. "Ah," he says, sounding a little startled, and pulls a plum out of his pocket. He tosses it to Wat, who catches it, and cradles it against his chest, feeling something hot burn in his lungs. "Won't be long," Geoff promises.   
  
Wat catches him by the sleeve before he can walk out the door, and kisses him hard. Geoff's hand traces his jaw, his eyes incomprehensible when Wat pulls back. "You'd better come back," Wat says, quiet and fierce.  
  
Geoff summons up a dark smile from somewhere. "Come after me if I don't."   
  
Wat clenches his jaw and Geoff pulls away, retreating down the stairs. He can hear the voices of the men pick up, and the sound of the door closing, and then footsteps, and car doors. He realizes belatedly, it was the car he saw as he was doing the wash.   
  
That thought, if nothing else, keeps him from thinking of all the things he didn't say to Geoff.  
  


* * *

  
  
Geoff is treated roughly.  
  
The men who take him in understand the circumstances of his arrest, but to the guards who deal with his containment, he is nothing but a traitor to his state, and a shame to his nation, and an excellent scapegoat to lash out against after attempting to strike shadows for so long. He is not beaten, and he is not starved, but he is not afforded the luxuries of other men awaiting trial; those high ranking officers of the German army who are protected under Convention laws. Geoffrey Chaucer, he realizes immediately, is someone they are prepared to let disappear, if things go sour. He thinks he might be in Germany, but he can't be sure what borders were crossed during the exhaustive drive.   
  
It is the longest night of his life, staring at the scant blank pages in each book, and imaging them filling with text.   
  
He understands their logic – if these journals are going to be entered as evidence, they can't risk his doctoring them. But he's equally unwilling to release the journals into their care. Evidence disappears. He knows this. For a period, he was the one who made sure it happened. And he doesn't trust anyone he's seen so far, except for maybe the agent with the hat who, for all he knows, is halfway back to Britain by now.  
  
In the dark, he pulls up the final journal – the most recent one – and searches toward the back for an adequate page. One with Wat's name on it. He tears it out, taking care that he leaves no trace of the page's existence in the binding of the book, and examines the tidy scrawl in the dim, buzzing glow of the lamp in the hall.   
  
Sitting on his bunk, he sorts through the pieces of chipped rock and stone along the crease of the wall, and tests them against the paper. One rubs black.   
  
Carefully, he rubs out all but three words on the page. The words are not connected, but that doesn't matter.   
  
He folds up the page into an eighth of its size, and tucks it away into his underpants. He doesn't trust his pockets, already.   
  
It's a long night.  
  
Geoff doesn't sleep. In the morning, he becomes aware of a presence outside the door to the room he's being held in – he hesitates to call it a cell because it lacks the stereotypes of most cells he's seen, bars, exposed toilet, rough bunking, that sort of thing – and the door latch is fiddled with before it's opened.  
  
"Germaine," Geoff says, and he hadn't meant to sound so confused, but that's how it comes out anyway.  
  
"Ah," he says. "I'm supposed to escort you for questioning."  
  
"You?" Geoff says, bemused, and scoops up his journals.   
  
Germaine gives him a look that shows that, yes, he understands the irony of the situation, but there isn't much he can do about it. Geoff counts it as a small blessing, and slips the square of paper out of his pants, palms it, and offers his hand to the shorter man.  
  
Puzzled, Germaine takes the paper, and half unfolds it before hesitating, looking up at Geoff. Geoff is quietly amazed that the man would be willing to grant him that privacy, or risk his guilt. Perhaps this bodes well for him, but he won't assume it.   
  
"If you would deliver it to my landlord," he says, his eyes catching Germaine's. "I understand you may need to read it, but I'd appreciate it if no one else did. Are you a reliable enough name for that? They won't question you?"  
  
"No," Germaine says, slowly, and unfolds the paper. He stares at it for a long moment. "Ah," he says, succinctly, and folds the paper back up to its miniscule size, and tucks it into his pocket. "It shouldn't be a problem."   
  
Germaine is all business, now, and Geoff feels relief flood his chest. It's a small detail, but it's an important one. He grips his journals tighter. "Thank you." He nods his head toward the entrance. "Lead on?"  
  
Germaine nods at him sharply, and leads the way down a row of rooms similarly barred, as Geoff's was. He tries to measure the fact that they have not sent armed guards to escort him, and then modifies this assumption – Germaine is armed, he can see the small bulge at the man's hip.   
  
Although he should've been expecting it, considering who was sent to summon him, it is still a surprise when they let him into the interrogation chamber. The man is holding a cup of coffee and sneering into it, disgusted. He looks up as Germaine closes the door behind them.  
  
"Chaucer," Adhemar says.  
  
"Sir," Geoff replies, instantly weary, and gives a casual salute.   
  
"Sit." Adhemar points at a chair in front of a metal table, and the order is nearly dismissive, bored. Geoff piles the journals on the edge of the table, and Adhemar picks the top one up, and flips through it. He snorts, and tosses it at Germaine. The man barely catches it against his chest. "Take these to evidence," Adhemar says.  
  
Geoff considers protesting, but he catches Germaine's eye, and the words die in his throat. This is his best chance, if he's going to be given one, and he carefully hands over the rest of the books.   
  
The door closing behind him is quiet. He feels like it should be loud, thundering, something to match the expression in Adhemar's face as he sits across from Geoff.  
  
"Well, Chaucer," he starts, and folds his hands together. An intimidation tactic. The scar on Geoff's side throbs with a phantom ache, and for just a moment a flash of fierce, vile anger fills him. He shoves it away. "Bit of a turncoat, are you?"  
  
Geoff doesn't answer. He keeps his face placid. He has not been formally charged with anything. He does not know in which capacity he is being held. He is under no obligation to speak.  
  
His journals will speak for him.  
  


* * *

  
  
One week passes, and then two.   
  
Rosie's more than alarmed by the news, when she returns – she doesn't trust people, not since her internment and rescue – but she doesn't question the sudden drastic extension of their business hours, or the fierce fervor with which Wat throws himself into running the café. Both weeks, they stay open on Tuesdays.   
  
Wat, for his part, starts to sleep on the long sofa in the front salon. The bed, which he had bought initially for its extravagance and comfort, seems too big now without a second body to fill it. It's worse, somehow, than the month-long trips Geoff will take up to England, or over to Italy or Spain. He can't trick himself into thinking that this will last for a month, or less, or that Geoff will come strolling in through the back door with a lily behind one ear and a satchel full of books in strange languages.   
  
The dreams haven't come back yet, but he's pretty sure they will.  
  
Regulations in their corner of town require that businesses be closed by midnight, but since Wat doesn't serve alcohol, no one chides him if he pushes the closing time back, and back. It isn't that he needs the money, or that there are even that many customers who want to stay that late. What Wat needs is the noise.   
  
It isn't a warm body, but it's a start.  
  
By the time Will shows up, Wat has very nearly gotten himself under control. He's living the way he did during the war – not before Geoff, because it's almost impossible to remember a time before Geoff, but the time of distraction and activity that came after. It's easier if he can pretend that Geoff is off on another scouting mission behind enemy lines, and that the war is close to turning their way.   
  
But it is the enemy lines that got Geoff arrested in the first place, and the only real war is much more personal now.   
  
The day Will comes, he's started to doubt. What if they're right. What if he's been harboring a criminal. And he hates Geoff for making him question these last peaceful months, and he hates himself for letting the feel of the last kiss slip against his mouth in the unguarded moments before sleep.   
  
Will shows up close to dusk, pink light spilling over the window sills in the kitchen. It makes the brushed steel of the coffeemakers gleam. He looks grave, but otherwise healthy. Wat's been expecting him.  
  
Will grins at him, and pulls him into a hearty embrace that sends Wat flailing and scowling. "You're well," Will decides.  
  
"Well enough. Still breathing," Wat begrudges him.  
  
"So I see." Will carefully lowers himself to the long bar, favoring one of his legs.   
  
"And Roland?" Wat asks, desperate for anything to talk about that isn't Geoff.  
  
"Well," Will says, and makes a sound of thanks at the cup of thick coffee Wat pours him. His face goes overly guileless. "If he'd get his eyes peeled off of the Alcyon in your car park, you could ask him yourself."  
  
Wat freezes. "He's  _here_?" Then he scowls. "Don't touch that bike."   
  
Will laughs into his cup. "Tell him that not me." He clears his throat at the strength of the coffee and set his cup down to explain. "He's been after a girl in Champagne. He's so in love, you wouldn't believe. You think I'd come this far without bringing him along?"  
  
Wat fights the warm feeling in his lungs, and the mild fretting over Geoff's motorbike.   
  
Roland does, at last, appear in the door, and again Wat cannot escape the embraces from his friends. Will slips behind the register to good-naturedly harass Rosamund, and Roland does the dishes. It's helpful, but it's not, because it means Wat isn't distracted, and that mean's he's thinking.  
  
Once they've got him alone, with a scattering of beer bottles and half a dram of scotch, the speculations start. Wat is not nearly drunk enough for this yet.   
  
"I've heard word of the trials," Will says, his rough fingers wrapping around the tumbler in front of him. "They don't beat the prisoners, that's the best that can be said."  
  
"God above, William," Roland grouses, and smacks him in the head. "That isn't helping."  
  
"Am I supposed to be helping?" Will's face is innocent again. "I didn't bring hookers."  
  
Roland gives Wat a dead, commiserating look – a look that says 'you see what I have to deal with when you're not around?' – but Wat's busy trying not to blush up to his hairline.   
  
"Did he leave anything?" Roland asks him. "Anything that might help him? We can move it through, or try – "  
  
"He took his journals," Wat says, "and the clothes on his back."  
  
"That's it?" Roland seems surprised. Wat isn't sure why – Geoff took plenty enough, as far as he's concerned.  
  
Will shrugs. "He knew what he was doing. Always did."  
  
Wat scoffs. Always knew how to get himself into trouble.  
  
A dismissive hand gets waved at him, and then it reaches for the bottle to pour another measure of scotch. "Same thing," Will says.  
  
Despite himself, Wat supposes that's a fair assessment.  
  


* * *

  
  
Geoff remembers telling Germaine, a long time ago, about hating exercise. The man had walked in on him hanging from his knees on the iron bar of the laundry tent, doing crunches upside down. All the blood in Geoffrey's head, he'd explained that exercise made him insane, because his mind would go rampant during whatever activity he was in the middle of, and he would inevitably lose something brilliant.  
  
He remembers Germaine asking him why, then, the sit ups, and at that point he'd gotten down from the bar. He can still feel that sensation of his heartbeat in his stomach as the muscles realigned themselves.   
  
The trick, he had told Germaine, was that you could clench your gut while you were being punched and pretend that you'd undergone worse damage. It is the art of playing opossum.   
  
Germaine had asked him, at the time, whether or not that was how Erich Weiss had died.  
  
"No," Geoff had said. "That was how Houdini performed his act of escapism."  
  
A year on from the end of the war, but it's been longer than that since Geoff did any sit ups. And now he's got the bruises to prove it.  
  
The door scrapes, and he folds his hands together on the table in front of him, handcuffs clinking against the dented metal. Geoff doesn't bother saluting – he gave that up weeks ago. It didn't do any good. It still doesn't.   
  
"I don't suppose you're prepared to make your statement, yet," Adhemar says.  
  
"I've made my statement," Geoff answers. "I'll make it again, if you like, but it isn't going to change."  
  
Adhemar nearly growls, leaning forward on his knuckles on the table to stare down at Geoff. "You're only making this harder on yourself."  
  
Geoff peers up at him, and wonders how true that is. He doesn't doubt the fact that he hasn't see the worst of this place yet. But they feed him irregularly and he hasn't bathed in weeks and he's bruised and cut and he's fairly sure that he has a broken rib, but it could just be that his whole body hurts from sleeping on one side on the cold concrete. "No," Geoff says, "I'm pretty sure I'm only making it harder for you."  
  
Adhemar gives him that insincere, unamused little smile that he likes to think is intimidating, and Geoff raises his eyebrows in reply.   
  
"You can't hold me," Geoffrey says. "It's illegal. To hold me for this long without charging me – "  
  
"Oh, you've been charged," Adhemar says.   
  
"Then I want a lawyer. Something isn't right here, don't think I'm ignorant of that."  
  
Adhemar's expression melts into something so saccharine it makes Geoff's back break out in chills. "You don't know what you're ignorant of, do you, boy."  
  
Geoff leans forward, surprised at the temerity of the man. They haven't exchanged this many words in some time, and usually it's a series of relentless and mysterious questions. "What is it you need a scapegoat for, Adhemar?" he hisses. "What is it you need me to take the fall on? What've you  _done_?"  
  
The blow across his face lands on his already bruised cheekbone, and it makes him cry out. Just a single, angry noise, and then he's got his hands pressed to his face, and his eyes trained on the other man, who glowers at him from under a mop of slicked curls. He's let himself fade away from military style after so little a period of time, and the resultant appearance is unnerving.   
  
"Back in the cell," Adhemar tells the guards, sneering down at Geoff. "Don't feed him until he agrees to talk.  
  


* * *

  
  
Thirty days after Geoff is taken, Wat closes down the café early and pulls out all the liquor from the kitchens, down to the cooking sherry. Will returns at sundown with the newspaper and starts combing it for information, and Roland shows up with Kate shortly after that, loaded with a stew large enough for the four of them (Rosie politely declines, as she's planning on spending the evening elbow-deep in making kiwi-strawberry tarts.)  
  
"You live next to the mail carrier?" Will asks, when Kate goes into the kitchen for bowls.   
  
"She moved in a few months ago," Wat explains.  
  
"And I'm not a mail carrier anymore," Kate snaps, shoving spoons against Will's chest. He has the good grace to look embarrassed and passes out the cutlery to those assembled while Kate ladles out the hearty stew. "I've got children to raise."  
  
"What happened to their father?" Roland asks, and Kate gives him a sideways look, but Roland's inherent manners save him from a scathing response.  
  
"Killed during a shelling in London," Kate replies, and from her face that is the end of that. "Anything in the paper?" She nods toward Will's hands, and Wat retrieves his portion of the stew and pokes at a piece of carrot.  
  
"No," Will says, though he sounds like he isn't sure, slowly leafing through the pages.   
  
"Well at least eat something," Roland tells him, nudging over a bowl. "The paper'll still be there in twenty minutes."   
  
Will grumbles, and Wat misses what he says, because Kate's sat down at the table across from him, and she lays her fingers on his elbow. "How're you?" she asks.  
  
He gives her a slight shrug, and occupies his mouth with the hot food so he won't have to speak.  
  
She frowns at him between her eyebrows, and he replies with a challenging look. But before either of them can speak, there's a knock at the front door. Wat blinks, and turns to look at Rosie, who meets his eyes. A coil of anxiety drops down his throat and into his stomach, and he hauls himself off the bench to go and answer the door.   
  
A squirrelly looking blond man is on the threshold, looking like he's ready to bolt.   
  
"Yes?" Wat prompts him.  
  
"Er," he says, and makes it fairly eloquent through use of his eyebrows. "Are you – I'm trying to find the landlord at this address?"  
  
"That's me," Wat says, warily, looking behind the man for company, or even evidence of how he arrived.  
  
"I – I have something to deliver to you, from Geoffrey Chaucer, it's – "  
  
Wat squints at him. "Don't I know you?"  
  
"Oh lord, sorry, here." He sticks a hand out like he isn't sure what to do with it, and Wat clasps it and shakes. "Germaine," he says. "Served under Sergeant Adhemar."   
  
"Didn't we all." Roland's voice at his elbow, and Wat releases Germaine's hand.   
  
"Come on," Wat says, waving him in.   
  
Germaine follows, looking like he's going into the mouth of the beast.   
  
Roland takes up queue as the host, which Wat's grateful for, because normally it would be Geoff being the polite one and Wat really doesn't have the energy for it right now. "Everybody, this is Germaine. Germaine – this is everybody." He presses his hand to his chest. "Roland." And then points around the kitchen. "Kate, William, Wat, and his sister Rosamund."  
  
"Rosie," she corrects sternly, and Roland gives her a sheepish grin.  
  
Germaine sheepishly waves a few fingers at the room.  
  
"Well," Kate says, "sit down. Have you got an appetite? There's beef stew."  
  
"Yes, that…would be lovely, thank you, I walked from the train depot."  
  
Will looks up from his paper. "That's…rather far." This is an understatement.   
  
Another bowl and spoon are fetched from the kitchen for Germaine, and they all set on their food, except for Wat, who continues to poke. After a moment caught in his own head, he makes himself speak up. "You said you had something from Chaucer?"  
  
Kate and Will both look up, curious, and Germaine makes a sound of regret. "Sorry, right. I should've brought it weeks ago, but I couldn't get away." He pats over his pockets like he's forgotten where he put it, except his fingers close on a piece of thick paper, handmade, if Wat can tell, but finely so. It isn't coarse under his fingertips.   
  
He makes himself examine the folded piece of paper for a long moment. He could choose not to open it. And then he'd always have this one thing, and he could save it. It would be easier, not knowing.   
  
"Well?" Will says, impatient. Kate smacks him in the arm.  
  
Wat huffs, mostly to himself, and pulls the folds apart.   
  
The page is entirely blacked out with an easily-read-through dusting of blackish dust. It rubs away on his thumb, and it's gone where the page was creased.   
  
There are three words visible: his name, and two others, and it hits him like a punch to the chest, all the things he's packed away since Geoff's been gone, and perhaps he's made a sound – he isn't sure – or maybe it's just the expression on his face as he tips his forehead into his palm, hair spilling over his fingers, that makes the others ask what, what does it say.  
  
He hands the page to Kate, who makes a quiet, mournful sound, and Wat looks at Germaine. "Did you read this?"  
  
Germaine's nod is short, and he hastens to explain, like he knows what a violation that would be. "I had to. He said – it was alright, if…"   
  
Wat cuts him off with a nod – it's fine, if Geoff said, there isn't much he can do about that.   
  
The silence is deafening at the end of the table. Rosie comes around from the prep station to peer over Will's shoulder, and smiles down, quietly, silent, and goes back to her strawberries biting her lip.   
  
"Wait," Will says, his index finger sloping toward Wat, and then the page. "…wait."  
  
"Oh, take your time with it, why don't you," Kate cuts in, sharp and disapproving. Her delicate fingers wrap around Wat's wrist.   
  
"Are…you… what? How did – " Will cocks his head to the side like he still can't quite follow, and Roland takes the opportunity to pull the page out of his hand, and then makes a sound of understanding, and rolls his eyes at Will. The page flutters down to the center of the table, and Wat reaches out and turns it face down, so he won't have to look. He scowls deeper, knuckles white against the table.  
  
"And you?" Roland asks him, like asking Wat if he can pass the soup tureen.  
  
It takes a beat, but Wat responds with a jerky nod. Kate's fingers tighten on him again.  
  
"Well then," Roland decides. "What else matters?"  
  
Wat stomachs a large surge of gratitude, and it doubles when William chimes in his agreement.   
  
"Here," Rosie says, from behind him, and hands him the towel she's been using to keep the dough wet. It can barely be classified as damp anymore, but the moisture is just enough to daub away the obscuring darkness on the page.   
  
Instantly, the words are gone, transformed into other sentences that mean less, and he leaves the page open to dry.   
  
Roland, though, is scanning through the information quietly. "This details a mission he ran for General Black. I didn't think he had anything to do with the espionage department."  
  
"He didn't," Kate says. "Not officially, at least. Everything was kept off-record."  
  
"That's part of the problem," Will mumbles, but he's squinting at his newspaper. Sloppily, he shoves the bowl to the side, and a bit of stew spills on the table. Wat's about to shout at him for it when Will lets lose a victorious yell, and pushes back from the table, grabbing for his coat. "Wat! Is there gas in that motorbike? Give us the keys."  
  
"Like hell," Wat says. "Take your car."  
  
"Bike's faster, I can take the back road. Got to get there tonight." Will's got that look in his eye, the one Wat should know by now, but he frowns down at the page anyway, reading the headline upside down. As soon as he understands what Will wants to do, he's shaking his head.  
  
"No, absolutely not. It won't work. There's too much security – "  
  
"Well, we've got to try, haven't we?" Will catches the keys as Rosie throws them, and Wat spins to reprimand her, but she's already disappeared back into the kitchen.  
  
And before he can warn Will off again, the man's out the door with a whoop, and the sound of the motorbike revving and gravel being displaced can be heard outside.  
  
Wat sinks to his chair, defeated.  
  


* * *

  
  
Geoff hadn't thought to sleep, but he wakes when the voices near his cell just the same. He groans against the concrete, and decides against pushing himself up. If they want him, they can damn well drag him to the interrogation chamber themselves. He doesn't have the energy for it anymore. And even sleep doesn't thwart the hunger pangs anymore, because they immediately claw at him as soon as he comes fully conscious.   
  
Adhemar fed him three days ago, after Geoff swore he'd sign the confession. But food first, he'd said, and Adhemar had believed it. The guards beat him for an hour afterward, and it however much he'd thought it hurt to move that day, it hurt at least twice as much the day after.   
  
The voices are getting louder, and it makes him roll his head toward the door, watching for a change of shadow underneath the threshold.   
  
The door opens, and the shouting comes in before the guards do. It takes Geoff a moment to realize that they aren't the ones yelling. They get him to his feet, and pull him – not gently, but certainly with less force than they've bothered before – toward the cell door.  
  
"Get his cuffs off," Edward snaps, and Geoff thinks he could cry from joy. Instead he just makes a small noise and clenches his jaw as the cuffs come off, and Edward looks him over.   
  
It's a chore looking back, from the black eye that he's got, but most of the other bruises are concealed.   
  
Edward turns to Adhemar, and it isn't yelling this time, it's a sharp, steady, calm voice that sends something skittering up Geoff's back. "I'm going to have my doctors look him over, Sergeant, and if a single bone is out of place I'll have you dishonorably discharged so fast it  _will_  make your head spin." He turned, not waiting for recognition, to Geoff. "Chaucer," he says.   
  
"Sir," Geoff croaks. There's an ensuing pause, and Geoff fills it. "If you don't mind my saying so, sir, it's very good to see you."  
  
Edward's expression cracks, and his shoulders move back a fraction of an inch. "I imagine it is, at that, Chaucer. Do they have your things?"  
  
Geoff nods, and then winces as the motion makes him dizzy. He props a hand on the threshold, casually, and leans his weight a little there. It isn't fooling anyone, and Edward's expression clouds over again. "Journals. Records of the missions. They may've been destroyed, though, I wasn't sure if they'd get through to you."  
  
"They didn't," Edward says, throwing another icy expression at Adhemar. He pulls out a slip of paper with his gloved fingers and offers it to Geoff. "This did."  
  
It actually takes Geoff a moment to realize what the sheet is, and then he blinks. "Ah," he says.   
  
"Get him to the car," Edward says, and two men come forward – French, Geoff realizes, from their uniforms – and they meet his eyes, and smile, and gesture down the corridor, flanking him. An escort of a sort he's never had before.   
  
"We'll get your things back," one of them murmurs to him in fair enough English, and the sound of Edward yelling resumes behind them.   
  
The other one cracks a smile. "As soon as General Black finishes."  
  
Geoff allows himself his first real measure of amusement, and he's loaded with questions that, for once, he doesn't ask. He lets them put him in clean clothes, and they use the hospital infirmary to bandage the worst of his scrapes, and find some pain killers and some simple enough food that his stomach won't reject it. And then he's guided to a large sedan, and he's shocked to realize that it's no longer spring, but early summer, and the breeze is cool and beautiful and he's never been so grateful in his life to have men who owe him favors.  
  
Edward emerges a good hour later, and wakes Geoff from a slight doze as he enters the sedan, barking instructions to his driver. They roll out with a car in front and behind, a procession through the gates, and Geoff makes himself look back.  
  
Edward has a small canvas bag between his feet, and he offers it to Geoff with a smile. His belongings are inside, and it makes his throat close up.   
  
"General," he begins, searching for words.   
  
Edward meets his eyes, and smiles. "I know," he says.  
  
"Thank you," Geoff says, simply.   
  
"You're very welcome," Edward says, and Geoff shouldn't be surprised to hear the genuine pitch of the man's voice, but it still startles him. "It's the least I could do." He clasps his fingers on one knee as the cars reach the main road and pick up speed, and he turns contemplative. "You should be decorated for what you've done for the war, you know."  
  
Geoff gives him a mildly amused, tired expression. "If you say so, sir."   
  
Edward's smile turns rueful. "I suppose you understand why the reasons that cannot happen."  
  
"I signed the anonymity clauses," Geoff reassures him. "I knew what I was getting into."   
  
"Just the same." Edward sighs. "I don't suppose it would be any sort of recompense to offer you a place at Adhemar's hearing. On the prosecution side, of course."  
  
Geoff blinks at him. "Sorry, sir?"  
  
"This… place you were held. It isn't sanctioned by the trials. I don't know what he's doing in there, but I intend to find out. We're having him arrested currently." Edward looks out the window, and Geoff watches his reflection avidly. He wants to ask who 'we' is, but he's afraid to interrupt, if Edward is feeling so generous. "It would help to know that you'd be willing to press charges."  
  
It's an effort not to laugh. "It would be my honor, General."  
  
Edward turns to grin at him. "I thought as much." His expression turns serious. "We're in for a bit of a drive to get you home. I'd hoped to take you to a hospital first, but Thatcher insisted that the best place for you would be back in France."  
  
"The sooner the better, sir," Geoff reassures him. Then he blinks. "William, sir?"   
  
"And Delves, yes, and Fowlehurst." He chuckles a little at Geoff's expression. "Never forget a face, Chaucer."  
  
"No, I imagine you don't," Geoff murmurs, wondering.   
  
"Blessing and a curse," Edward reassures him, and then pats his knee. "Get some rest, son. It's a long trip, and you needn't stay awake on my account."  
  
"Mm," Geoff says, settling against the door. It's miles less uncomfortable than the cell. "I suppose this makes us even, then."  
  
Edward's laugh follows him as he drowses off. "Not by a long stretch, Geoffrey. Not by a long stretch indeed."  
  


* * *

  
  
Thirty five days after Geoff is taken, at approximately three in the morning (Wat squints blearily at his wristwatch to check the time), the crunch of gravel in the drive wakes him. Roland and William are down the road at Kate's for the evening, and Rosie's out again, and it takes an instant before hope ratches sky high in Wat's chest, and then plummets back down into a ball of nerves in his gut. He doesn't even bother with proper pants: he's wearing pajama bottoms and yanking on a robe on his way down the stairs, and the porch light floods the car park and he freezes on the second step, fingers still clinging to the screen door, staring at General Black as he strides across the lawn in full military regalia. The night chill has made it appropriate for him to be wearing the large grey overcoat, but it still looks intimidating to Wat. The four stars on his lapel catch the light and glint menacingly.   
  
"Sergeant," General Black says, his hands in his pockets.  
  
"General," Wat replies, and salutes. "I apologize for my appearance, sir."  
  
"At ease." Black waves at him. "I'd expect no less, interrupting a man at his home."  
  
"Thank you, sir." Wat hesitates. "And it's Corporal, sir."   
  
Black grins at him. "No, Fowlehurst, it's Sergeant."  
  
Wat squints at him, against the headlamps of his car. "Are you promoting me in my bare feet, sir?"  
  
"I am, at that." Black looks fairly pleased with himself, and scratches at his jaw. "Unless you mind?"  
  
Wat shakes his head, feeling slightly dazed, and he can't help looking toward the car for a moment, hope leaping and tumbling inside his chest. "If it's all the same, sir, I hope it doesn't ever matter."  
  
Black's face draws in grave. "Well said." A tiny sigh issues forth from his chest, almost silent, and he turns and gestures at the car. "I believe I've recovered one of your lost lodgers." He grins a bit. "I hope you won't charge him for the missed month."  
  
Wat's mouth is dry, and it takes him a moment to find the words. "No, sir, I believe I'll let that slide."  
  
"Good man." The General claps him on the shoulder, enough that it startles Wat, and he pulls him along as he heads back toward the car.   
  
On their way there, the door opens, and Black makes a small sound. "You've woken! Welcome back to France, Chaucer."  
  
"Thank you, sir," comes the voice, and Wat has to bite down on his mouth not to make a sound. Geoff unfolds himself from the seat, thinner than ever, and pulls a bag of something along with him. He drops it immediately to the ground, like it's too much to carry, and Black shakes his hand.   
  
"I hope we'll meet again under better circumstances."  
  
"I have no doubt," Geoff reassures him, not looking at Wat, and that makes him even more jittery. So much so that he almost misses it when the General turns to him.  
  
"Corporal," Black says, and they shake as well. "I imagine I'll be seeing you both in a few weeks. Until then."  
  
"Thank you," Wat blurts, and Black gives him a sideways look and a half smile, a little too knowing, but Wat doesn't care. He's buzzing from it, each long second before Black gets back into his car, and the caravan drives off.  
  
Geoff comes to stand next to him as they watch the cars leave, and it isn't until the last red glow of taillight has disappeared that Geoff speaks.   
  
"Thank you," he says quietly.   
  
Wat turns to look at him so quickly that it makes something in his neck twinge. "What are you – don't thank me, you great idiot – "  
  
Geoff makes a sound, and he isn't sure if it's a laugh or a sob, but it doesn't matter because suddenly Geoff's in his arms – he isn't even sure who moved first – and his arms are around the skinny writer, pulling him against his chest, and Geoff's head dips down to his shoulder and they just grip each other, tight as Wat'll allow himself, and Geoff's breathing too hard, too irregularly, fighting something back.  
  
"Ow," he murmurs after a moment, and Wat immediately loosens his grip, but doesn't let go.  
  
"They hurt you," Wat guesses.  
  
"Mn," Geoff says.  
  
"I'll kill them," Wat says into his hair, and one hand wraps up to curl around his neck, trying to tug him closer, and it just isn't working. "I will fucking kill them."  
  
"Shush," Geoff says, and suddenly squeezes him tighter again, hanging on.   
  
It takes some effort, but Wat makes himself pull away, keeping one arm wrapped around Geoff. He bends to scoop up the bag by the neck, and by its bulk he can tell it's the journals. "Come on." He urges Geoff toward the door, and it takes some doing but they get inside the café. "You need to be in bed."   
  
"I know," Geoff says, sounding a little muzzy, arm over his shoulders. He's favoring one leg severely enough to give Wat another flash of concern. "I'm sorry to come so late, I just…"  
  
"Would you shut up?" Wat gives his middle a slight squeeze.  
  
"Right," Geoff says. "I think I'm a little… funny in the head right now."  
  
"You'll be right as rain tomorrow, I'm sure," Wat says, and pitches his voice to make it sound like that's a bad thing, but more than anything he wants that, he wants to know that Geoff's alright enough to tease him and to make him scowl and to have him do anything but worry. Something twists in his chest again, and he blurts, "The next time you make me worry this much I am going to kill you."  
  
"That's what you said last time." They take the stairs slowly, and Geoff stops to rest a moment halfway up, leaning against the wall. It's dark – Wat didn't bother turning on a light as he tore down the first time – but the open windows from the bedroom are letting in just enough starlight to make out the contours of Geoff's face.   
  
Geoff kisses him, slow and silent, and almost chaste, and it chokes him. Wat tips their foreheads together, and slips his fingers around Geoff's arms. He can feel the man's broad hands settle on his hips.   
  
"Bed," Wat manages, after the lump in his throat has receded, and Geoff nods. They start up the stairs again, and Wat speaks slightly louder, more composed. "Do you need to eat?"  
  
"It can wait," Geoff says. "Sleep first."   
  
Wat permits this, helping Geoff sit on his side of the bed – and just thinking that makes him swallow again – and to get some of his clothes off, and he draws the shutters open just a little for some fresh air. He'd want it, if he'd just spent a month in captivity, and Geoff gives him a look of such gratitude that Wat has to look away.   
  
They curl together, touching as much as Geoff can stand, and sleep. Wat wakes frequently in the night, but he doesn't mind the restlessness, because it's more important that he can remind himself what's happened; and in the dark, he deals with the joy of it silently and greedily, alone.  
  


* * *

  
  
Geoff winces as he spreads his fingers over the healing bruise on his side. It's orange and greenish now, not the terrifying black it was last week, and the painkillers are doing him a world of good. At least, that's what he tells Wat. But he thinks it probably has more to do with three square meals a day, ten hours of sleep at night, and feeling so ridiculously protected in his own home.   
  
It's only been eight days, but Wat has already switched back to his normal mode – smacking Geoff where he knows he isn't bruised, giving him a solid tongue lashing for being too lazy, and chastising him for wasting too much water in the shower.   
  
Except every now and then, when he thinks Geoff isn't looking, Wat will just…watch him. With that look he gets, the look Geoff can feel in Wat's fingers as they brush against his nape at night.   
  
He spits water into the sink, and shuts the taps off, meandering back toward bed. He still gets tired easily, his body trying to catch up with what's been done to it, but the doctors tell him he'll be solid by the end of the month. He's looking forward to it – he hasn't been able to write, and it's burning a hole in the back of his brain.   
  
When he slips into the bedroom, Wat is sitting cross-legged on the turned down bed, one of Geoff's journals in his lap. He looks up, vaguely guilty, as Geoff comes in.  
  
"What're you up to, then?" Geoff slips onto the bed next to him, and leans his chin on Wat's shoulder.   
  
"I wanted to put this back," Wat says. He gestures down to the bed, and Geoff spots the folded up note, waiting there. It's been fished from his clothes and smoothed out as best as can be managed, but it's still recognizable.   
  
"August fourteenth," Geoff supplies. "You picked the right book, though."  
  
Wat murmurs something, and starts to flip the pages. "You were an idiot to send that."  
  
"It got me out," Geoff says. He smiles, and kisses Wat behind the ear. "You were my security."   
  
"Everyone saw it."   
  
Geoff pulls back slightly, after a moment. "Ah." He pulls his legs onto the bed, and touches Wat's shoulder blade. "Do you mind?"  
  
Wat shakes his head, jerkily, but he doesn't look at Geoff. He slows down his leafing, getting through July, and Geoff thinks the subject is done when Wat speaks again. "I - ." He stops and frowns. "Me too."  
  
Geoff presses his mouth against Wat's shoulder, fingers pressing down. "I know," he murmurs against Wat's skin. "Trust me, I know."   
  
"Good," Wat grumps, and though he still doesn't look, he spares one hand to find Geoff's others, and their fingers weave. They're silent for a moment, Geoff watching him as he journeys through the journals. "I'm in here."  
  
"Everyone is," Geoff reassures him. "There's nothing incriminating, if that's what you mean." There was, of course, but not if you didn't know how to read between the lines, and Geoff was fairly sure that Wat wouldn't bother.   
  
The right page is discovered, and the crumpled and folded sheet is slipped back in, sticking out a little in the manner that all pages, once removed, will always be, despite any attempt at replacement. Geoff takes the book from him, and sets it aside on the table by the bed.   
  
Wat twists, leaning back on one hand, and guides Geoff down into a kiss. It starts simple, warm and full of reassurance, but then Wat shifts again, further back, and the kiss deepens in a way he hasn't let them since Geoff's come back, out of fear of injury or respect for distance or some other foolish notion that Geoff hasn't attempted to draw him out of yet. It doesn't seem to matter anymore, though, not with Wat licking into his mouth, and it's hot enough to make him dizzy and yet, somehow, still one of the most tender kisses he's ever had from this man.   
  
"You're wearing pants," Wat murmurs against his mouth, pulling Geoff sideways to press him against the mattress. Wat spreads out next to him, fingers skimming own to the bruise on his ribs, and then over to another on his chest, and Geoff knows, keenly, that this inventory will continue until all of his marks have been catalogued, and then Wat will follow with his mouth.   
  
"Is that a problem?" Geoff asks, pulling a pillow from the head of the bed. His ankles hang free over the side of the bed, and he pulls Wat down for another kiss, and then another. "Mm. We can fix it."   
  
Wat chuckles, fingers slipping down his stomach again, and Geoff finds the muscles in his abdomen tensing in anticipation of the touch. "You'd better had," he warns, and his fingers ease under the waistband and cup between Geoff's legs.  
  
His eyes slide shut as he sucks in a breath, Wat's palm hot and oh,  _moving_ , and when he has his equilibrium back he lunges up to bite at Wat's pale throat, tracing freckles and the taste of summer sweat with his mouth and oh, god, there's no better painkiller than this.  
  
Geoff's been so long without that he's willing to classify the entire experience as embarrassing. Or he would, at least, if it didn't feel so fucking good, and Wat certainly isn't complaining, and by the time they end up in a sweaty, sticky mess at the foot of the bed, Geoff is fully damning the fact that he isn't fully healed yet, because there's nothing he wants more than to be able to tackle Wat back up against the pillows and get himself properly fucked. Or vice versa, he really doesn't care.  
  
Wat, as if he can read his mind, or perhaps the sound of his heart, since that's where the man's head is pillowed, taps him in the sternum with a finger. "Don't even think about it," Wat grumbles against his skin, and Geoff laughs.  
  
William and Roland will be coming by in the afternoon to see themselves back to England, and Geoff has promised Kate that he'll come by soon to visit the girls. But right now, all of that seems like the distant future, and Geoff's month away feels like the distant past. The sense of  _now_  drags him down, wrapping his arms around Wat, and though he knows they'll need to move in a bit, to sleep properly, it's far too nice to drift here while he can.   
  
A noise of agreement issues forth from Wat, again making Geoff suspect telepathy, but he nuzzles down into Wat's hair, pulling the man a little higher on his chest, and they sigh in syncopation: relief, and forgiveness, and comfort.


End file.
